Chapter 1

Nothingness. It was not emptiness. It was not being. There was no space for him. And no quantity to measure him. Nothing could gather him. No one could cup him in their palms. And this made him lonely.

The loneliness came as his awareness bloomed, in the absence of light or sensation; there was nothing to nurture him. Soon he was aware of himself, and that he was alone. And yet, he was not alone, while all that existed, was himself.

Nothingness leapt ahead, striding in leagues, decades, propelled by a power that became without creation. It felt, and he knew, that he was the void. He was the darkness. He saw himself, but it was alien to him. Then it was gone, and he did not remember what he had seen.

Pain scorched through him, quickly escalating to agony, in writhing currents from something inside him, something that was grappling to maintain its hold. Or else, whatever it was that hurt him, it was attempting to climb out of the deep place it had fallen into. But as this something gave way, and the darkness fluttered as if torn, all feeling ceased. There was no relief. Only a form of death. Dead was all, and nothing was everything, and yet every part of his being was the world. It was an unstructured, unplanned, and unguided existence on a plain of darkness.

As though washing ashore some other realm, apart from the nothingness of his vacant self, the abyss receded from him as he lay on something stiff, something warmer than the lightless void, yet it was cold. And it hurt. And it reeked of his negated essence, the peculiar aroma that was rotten, dead. His blood, he recognized immediately. But his blood was part of the cold, the stiffness that held him in place and confused him. He was stiffened to the hard surface beneath him, plastered in layers and congealed globs of his rotting blood. The primary, oldest layers of blood, fractured as a muscle twitched in his shoulder. The muscle had moved before he had known he'd had a shoulder.

If he had a shoulder, he must have a body. And it must be this body that was stuck to the hard surface.

The blood encasement fractured across his foot, and then the other foot when he moved them on command, and they obeyed him. His void, what he felt he was, was a thing suspended in nothing, or else a nothing punctured into something much larger. For the moment when his senses scoped out the presence of his limbs and features, he could not open what he knew to be eyes. They stuck fast, dried shut, cracking but still fastened. However, after a long endeavor, or a very short one, he could not tell, his eyes split.

And opened.

Pupils constricted into pinpricks. A shift of discomfort from the stinging light caused webs of cracks and fissures to dash across his torso and limbs.

Pain. The source twisting in my chest!

His face contorted, blood flaked like dry dirt, rolling off the sides of his nose and onto his shut eyes. But the pain surged anew, and he lost his sense of touch, every new limb was stolen away, and he was frozen, paralyzed, as the pain in his chest tore his mind to pieces.

He asked why, why was there pain, why was this happening, why could he not move, and why was there so much of his blood spilled over him.

Immediately, he was relieved of the agony in his chest, and it nestled beneath his ribs as a constant ache. After this onslaught, and no longer paralyzed, he lay gasping, his body open, as though his lungs steamed in the raw air. Hollow breaths, no matter how deeply he gasped, that was all he could muster. He began to wonder whether the act of inhaling served any purpose at all. It was aggravating to the nerves, his chest writhed in the semblance of suffocation in a vacuum, a void, or else he was drowning beneath the pressure of too much substance, crushing him. But he knew nothing of it. So he asked why, as he opened his eyes.

Blurs composed a face out of fractal glints of color and twinges, hurtful twinges in his neck, and behind his eyes. The wriggling, unpleasant pain suckled at the roots at the crown of his head and slithered over his scalp. He stared into the face that was tilted towards him, this face that was observing him, challenging him, asking something incomprehensible. But why?

As more blood flaked from his nose, a reflexive blink solidified the seams of color and discomfort into one creature. Blues fit together in the eyes staring down into him, which stared into his unknown eyes. What color were his own eyes? Where was the answer to something so simple? Why did he not have it?

He felt like he was scattered, spread thin over endless miles, but as the man looked at him, he saw this as a sign of existing. The man searched for something, in him, as if wading through some substance. It was evidence, or a suggestion, of his material being. It showed him that there was a now. And a here. And what the man looked at, and what he himself felt, was his physical body. A body that contradicted his sense of being scattered, since he seemed to be here, in the now, beneath the man leaning over him.

And this was the face of another. It as not part of the void. It was separate, like the hard surface he lay on, and the air that surrounded him and failed to satiate his aching chest. He felt it was not right; this was wrong, but how? And why? He could not ask anymore. It brought him nothing but a sense of ignorance that frightened him. And it made the pain in his chest flutter.

His trembling hand rose slowly out of scales of shedding blood, and was drawn onto his rising and falling chest. Although his weak, shivering fingers slid over the crusty skin directly over the pain, he could not catch hold of the ache. He could not wrestle it from the heart that was a hard, coarse, and dead thing inside him. The heart was unmistakably light, like a husk, like the blood and gory remnants that coated him. Dry. Restrictive. But it was not heavy.

Taking his mind from the dulled, yet active pain in his chest, he looked into the face that hung above him, watching him. Motion altered it. The lips changed with the cheeks, the creases at the eyes, and the eyes themselves swiveled. The face was smiling, but it was not an expression that instilled warmth. It reached inside him and drew out a length of something that was part of the void, splayed out and dismantled by some violence. The sensation of a cord or length of organ being slowly pulled from his body, continued into the background of the exchange of stares. Meanwhile, he watched the man's unpleasant smile form and remain.

He felt his eyes move for the first time. They had moved to follow the man's face as he moved.

The man's body was somewhere beside the surface the newly awakened being lay on. The man leaned closer.

Still fastened to the hard surface beneath him, he heard the man's hand touch down beside his head, as the man leaned still closer and nearer. The man wanted something from his face, that was all he knew, and he could find no reason for it. But he refused to ask why.

To avoid the question, he bent his leg until he could finally see a part of his body and exactly what he was. The leg was dyed red, featuring different shades of old and new gore despite the total absence of wounds. It was as if he had been bathed in blood for many days. That the blood had washed over him, again and again, to create layer after streaming layer that hardened. So his body, or no- He himself, had existed before now. He had been asleep. Perhaps. That was all he could understand.

As he stared at his leg, becoming oblivious of the man who watched him so closely, as the man became air for a moment, he asked himself what color might be found beneath the blood if he washed his leg. Its deadness was incessant, as the numbness that made it clumsy and hard to maneuver would not thaw. Gradually, he let his foot slide back over the slick surface he lay on, until again the leg lay flat. The slick blood had been spilled recently. He had not felt it before, it being as cold as himself. But it meant that the blood was not only on him, it was everywhere.

Except for man. He wore none of the color, and none of stench of rotting and sickness.

Still avoiding the fluttering question, he sought out the broadness and flatness beneath him. It made the surface feel like a table. So it became a table. As his mind comprehended it. It was conjured, and known. As well as felt anew.

Sound, when it came to him, was unexpected; it was sharp, pulsating, exploding into the silence he had known before. Now there was more than the motions of limbs in the realm not part of the void. But there was also language, and communication, and he learned- no, recalled, that men interact in this way. As the voice filled the air, the man's face was in continual motion, the lips and mouth, a multitude of muscles working in unison and against the pulls of one another. And the blinking eyes made him blink in return.

"This is good enough, Count." The voice rung in his ears, but soon condensed and quieted. "Good enough to serve me." The face altered in the familiar way, yet the fearful smile was greater, wider, rejoicing more than before when it had been questioning and uncertain. "You are mine. Count. … Mine."

Count.

He chilled as quickly as a match is struck; an unknown electricity ran through the shards of blue in the eyes above, and this power seemed to strike him. There was some sort of friction, some conflict when they met. The man's eyes were hurtful, though they did him no physical harm. They were near hurting him, they foretold future pain. What overcame him was the sense of belonging to these eyes which contained only cruelty, hatred, antagonism, and gloating. Behind all of this, triumph flared up over the crest of the damnation the eyes drove like an axe into his skull.

He was trapped inside this man's hurtful eyes.

The man spoke again, smiling as before, but with even more cruelty and joy. "Now… you will call me 'Master,' and you will no longer be 'Count.'" The face of hatred, the face of Master, came closer, and he felt the heat of Master's fulfilling and satisfying breath, thawing him but also making him aware of the iciness of the air. He experienced a tweak in his pained chest that bespoke jealousy. Jealousy of the man's breath, of his warmth, of his eyes that contained triumph and were so full of conviction, while he was and had none of these.

"You are, and forever will be, my slave." Master whispered with his hurtful eyes shining. His voice rose, "… Now. Address your master, as a slave should."

Beneath the master's expectant and commanding gaze, nothing surfaced to satiate him. No response, no change, only blankness, staring uncertainty. These were conflicting weaknesses that did not wholly anger the man, but they left him wanting. The man's smile had left no trace of itself. It had been forgotten, as the present only retained the glower, the crease beside the hard lips. The man drew away, but continued to lean over the dyed form.

And he, the one below, the nothing-body, looked back at the man, with nothing to give him.

The command chipped the stones that sparked receding echoes, these mapped out the expanse beyond the man and the hard table. No. The hard stone slab, beneath him. Stones. He was buried in a tomb, in the earth. There was a world beyond this, and all of this, these stones, this tomb, this man and himself and all the shed blood were part of this world. In some compartment that isolated them in the now that stretched onward. The message in the voice was lost beneath this wealth of realization, in this sudden scope and reevaluation. But the message came rebounding back and struck him between the eyes, forcing them to focus on the displeasure in the blonde man's face. Reddish honey blonde hair, that shot forward from the master's well-covered scalp. And the hair was darker than it should be, for the few suspended candles, a tall candelabra nearby but nothing stronger. And he, the void one, was covered by the man's shadow. This man put him in darkness with his movements and presence.

"Address me, Slave." The nameless master commanded.

His voice creaked beneath the parting blood that had fused his lips. It was a sensation that seemed outside of his control, outside of the voided realm but feeding back into it. Until they melded into one. The voice was the reverberation that carried through the fluttering void, riven and vulnerable, and shapeless.

Language too was known, as the creaking condensed into speech, to solidify and become operational. For obedience. "My Master."

A weak, rasping utterance. Of acknowledgement, of reciprocating identity. Their paths were established, one upon the other. Reaching into the void, as one could not exist alone now.

Thrill warmed the man's face and hindered the cruelty with untainted happiness. But taint easily bled into the excitement, as a sneer roamed the shifting features of the master who held himself over the slave, on the stone slab, in the stone chamber, in the chill air that satisfied the man but could not satisfy the slave. When the slave so needed and longed for relief. Burning, aching, breathless – and starving became known, as the agony descended to lower organs, and branched to already achy limbs. Mixing with, rather than dispelling, the numbness.

Slave. I am Slave. I am a slave, Slave is not my name. I have no name. My Master who commands me calls me Slave.

Master's face drew away suddenly, snagging the slave's attention as he stared and saw his master's face change into something severe. It was unfamiliar. Disturbance. Without a smile. Without gloating. Without hatred. There was some suspicion of failure, perhaps even fear could be detected. Or fear would have emerged, if only breathed upon, after the blow the man's confidence had received. But it was let alone for the man to prod about himself.

…

Abraham detected the wrong, the unpredicted vision in the face of the Count. Gritty with blood, and stinking of innards, it was below the Count's exterior. Inconsistency, with projected outcomes, with projected character and Abraham's understanding of Dracula and his being. Abraham was receiving far too much compliance. Too much ease could be seen in the confused, blood stained gaze, lost and uncomprehending. Any portrayal of hatred imaginable to the man was missing. As though stumbling over an imperfection purposefully clipped into a near-perfect creation by some anonymous fiend, the man's chest welled with horror. And with bitterness against the Count, as though it were his doing –but it must be his doing, Abraham was certain.

Abraham's skin prickled and his hair stood on end as his heart's rhythm soared with his thoughts. What was he seeing, what could have caused it, was this success, was it failure? What should he do? What should be seen to first? What was this? His teeth grated in an open scowl, as Abraham's eyes tightened and sharpened like knives, to plunge into the Count as he growled down into the face, inches keeping them from melting into one another.

Through the blood he saw the burning irises, but in them, nothing. No heat in the flames – fire, but not hellfire – not what should be, not what had always looked back at him, had taunted and tortured him, had preyed upon the innocent and the vulnerable. Where is he! Where? The unintelligible questions followed Abraham's senses rather than his reason, seeking out the combatting entity he had raged against for so long. To have it suddenly extinguished, and yet not defeated, was unbearable. It was as though it had retreated from him, hidden beyond what he now confronted. What lie, or what truth is this? What is this!

Fury that weighed down the man's breath was felt by the face below, by the slave that received the hatred, the aggression and resentment of some wrong that had no origin. The low voice prowled the slave's flinching features, and seeped into the wide eyes. It made them blink and squint as the master's face only drew closer, and the breath grew hotter.

"What are you planning, Count? Where is your despair?" Abraham's lips rippled and his scowl grew, "Wretch." He spat the word out like a maggot. "Why do you not acknowledge your loss? Why do you not miss your freedom? You are done, Count. Finished! I have broken you and reformed you- You are no longer what you once were. You will remain eternally chained, bound, submissive to your status beneath me, beneath Man. … You are my Slave! Why do you show nothing? Nothing of your well-deserved fate! WHAT ARE YOU PLANNING? Give it up!"

The slave's parched voice quivered beneath the storming cacophony of his master's fury, as it drenched the walls of the domed chamber. "I have no plans."

The barking rejection roared into the face, "YOU LIE! YOU HAVE NO MORE WILL LEFT FOR YOURSELF, SO CEASE YOUR LIES AND OBEY ME, SLAVE! You are subject to my will now. You heed mine, mine alone- you have nothing left of your own!" The whisper that emerged from the hovering face, gave the slave's eyes space to reopen, to then see the broiling furry that contorted the blue shards of the man's glower, like the forming ripple of a mirage. "Do you hear me? Slave?"

This calm is feigned. The slave's mind registered from nothing, fed from nothing but the tone and man's gaze, in the conflicted being above. Always above, somehow. Forever hanging over him.

Abraham hissed, "I asked, do you hear me?"

"I hear you."

The feigned calm endured, nurtured by Abraham, though in his wrist, his anger throbbed in his veins. "You'll refer to me as Master from now on."

"Yes."

A hissing breath startled the slave. Abraham's cruel look, the blue shards, shut, then reappeared, stronger than before. "You did not address me as you should have."

Bemused crimson blinked upward, and the unsatisfying breaths continued in a gentle, but useless, rhythm. The dead heart felt charred, and brittle –still like a husk. But the slave realized that the ache was soothed when he complied with Master's wishes. Seeing Master's face, though disturbing and hurtful in another light, eased the pain in his chest. So he asked, readily, though stupidly, "How shall I address you?"

"As MASTER." The hard edge in his voice rebounded back into Abraham's ears, making him wince, as it conflicted with his own gentler nature. But this feeling only tightened his pupils and reopened his scowl.

Having drawn away by degrees, Abraham leaned into the face once more, to gaze deep into the eyes that did not burn hot enough. And the feigned calm rose with the whisper, "You will refer to me whenever you are speaking to me, or are spoken to. You will call me 'Master.' … Now, address me properly."

Wordless, questioning, the bloody body obeyed, "Master."

The surge of pride, melded with dumbfounded relief and accomplishment swept over Abraham, but still he made the slight correction. "'Yes, Master.'"

"Yes, Master."

Internally, Abraham sighed. "That is how you give your answers. From now on. As my slave." The new master surveyed the empty face of his slave, the unshielded vulnerability he took from it so easily. Disgusting and raw, as though bleeding in his palm.

Abraham was quiet for a moment. "Do you understand what I have told you?"

"Yes, Master." The quiet voice murmured beneath the master's whisper, as if Abraham were still shouting and the only source of calm belonged to the staring red, heatless orbs of his slave.

Abraham said nothing before departing.

After ages, the aching limbs could be moved, and the fragile neck used to lift the stiffened head of hair from the stone slab. But a tinkling of metal was heard, and a limiting factor was felt- was realized. The head returned feebly to the stone slab, and the hand that had remained on his chest shifted to his throat. There the steel clasp and twin chains at either side of his neck were touched by shivering fingers, the links traced to the extent of his arm's reach, to where they locked his body against the stone slab.

The hand gradually retracted to the rhythmic chest, and was laid over the husk of a heart. He waited for the man's return, shutting his eyes, and regressing to some state that imitated the void of self he had known before.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

While in the state of unconsciousness and fatigue, he had been moved. Crimson orbs opened to the slant of a rough stone, and the slave felt his voided self confined in a much smaller chamber. A cell, still entombed in stone. Unrecognized stone, grey, unremarkable. It could not hold his interest

Though in pain, the slave raised himself in the darkness to perceive it in full. There were walls, and a hard floor beneath him, which he felt to be rough as he swept his hand across it, and slipped his unsteady fingertips into grooves between stones. And above- no. With a sharp twinge that shot like a volt of electricity through his brain, and made him squint and lay perfectly still until he was sure it had passed, the slave discovered miserably that he could not manage to look up at all. His neck was too weak, his head, too heavy and sloshing with a nonexistent substance. Something unknown held him down. So the quiet slave lay on his back and feasted upon the blackness of the flat ceiling overhead. He feasted, because there was nothing else for him in this world.

Darkness caressed him with phantom touches of recurrent awareness, ebbing and growing with seconds, or minutes, or hours. There was time here, but it was made irrelevant as it could inspire no change. Boredom, no, not boredom. He experienced silence, or calm. As though sleeping while seeing and fully aware of the world beyond what would be dreams. If he had ever experienced dreams. Knowing and yet unfamiliar, so much was introduced but as though through the recollection of misplaced memory.

He waited, and slept.

The sharp, jagged screeching of heavy a bolt withdrawing opened the slave's heatless candle-eyes to the pitch darkness, before it was abruptly swallowed by piercing light.

The light-! It hurt him, seared into his pupils and clawed into his brain. He rolled away on the rough stones, gritty hands and sharp fingernails clutching at his blinded eyes. Fangs emerged in a grimace as he repressed a groan. But this went unseen by Abraham who had stepped into his slave's cell, only to watch the wretch turn away and replace his face with a mass of matted, nest-like clots of dark hair. The image of the hair contrasted strongly, and pleasantly, with Abraham's recollections of the Count's once glossy and rolling ebony mane. Now the slave's hair matched his starved and hollowed body. And Abraham paused to look upon the slave's nakedness and degradation, clothed in his own blood and the cell's filth. This was justice taken hold of the wicked, after being denied for so long. Famished, powerful, and merciless justice.

Abraham stood on the threshold, outlined with torchlight as he assessed his work. Critically, he etched out the bones in the jutting spine, the mountainous shoulder blades, the ribs, and the horrendous precision of the sculpted pelvis, which looked like a skeletal butterfly.

If seen on any other being, Abraham could not have borne the sight. But on the Count… the misery was relished. As though rich and decadent against his tongue, he drank in the wasted form for a long moment.

When satisfied, he spoke, "Face me, Slave."

The body of bones and blood, and dried, wrinkled flesh held itself, and the thin legs were drawn into the slave's empty stomach.

Again, the phantom blood of his slave's defenselessness streamed between Abraham's fingers. He felt it run over his bandaged wrist and down his arm. The vulnerability. The disgust in it. It was unknown whether this disgust was directed at the Count alone, or if Abraham was included. He couldn't prevent the grimace, the frown, his uneasiness. This wasn't as it should have been. If there was rage, it would have fleshed out the monster. But there was nothing in the Count. And Abraham's voice grew softer, so it would not sound so harsh against the cell walls, or bleed down the corridor.

"Face me."

"The light."

Blue narrowed, and Abraham murmured, only to remind his slave of what he'd missed. But as he did so, he also compromised, stepping away from the door to one of the walls where the veiled gloom would be easier on the wretch. "'The light, Master.'"

Rasping echoed the words, and the firelight eyes clenched, hidden in the stones.

Abraham licked his lips, wetting them as though the dry voice had been his own. "You will see me better now." And the slave complied, turning hesitantly, blinking in his master's direction, squinting at the softened light. He seemed to be able to stand it, since he did not roll away.

But the angle of the glow from the open door filled the slave's hollowed eyes with darkness. Shadows acted as kindling to build up the fire of the bare, unshielded gaze. Nearing nausea, Abraham shut the image out of his head, for composure, to grip his senses and rein them in. Once he could again look upon the hollowness, he better withstood the Count's expression. But only slightly. So very minimally improved was he, that the man debated whether he should remain in the cell… with his current state being as it was. So unnerved.

But Abraham did not move to the door. "Slave." He waited for the proper response, finding that it came late.

Finally the crimson orbs disappeared in a blink, flashing when the purpose of the silence was understood. "Yes, Master," emerged from the cracked lips.

The voice as well- Abraham discarded the notion. "I will ask you again, and I expect that you will cooperate with me…" Blue and red stared into one another, one masked, one skinned and pulsating. The man sensed the continuous, pouring, blood – imagined blood, which Abraham was not accustomed to, and did not know how to approach. How to staunch his natural feelings towards it. "Slave. Why have you suddenly become so compliant, and so silent on the matter of your… situation?"

Blinking replied that no part of this protracted question had been understood, just as before. It made Abraham wince, and he adjusted his coat against a chill in the cell. It was a known cold that pervaded the underworld he had salvaged. They were beneath the layers of stone and unlit chambers hidden underneath the Hellsing mansion, all of which Abraham had only recently obtained. Both the mansion and the underworld had been, and continued to be, refitted to his needs. Barracks were under construction in order to house his vision. A 'hospital' as well, was being built to mend the injuries his vision foresaw. Injuries specific to the work they would do, what they would accomplish. Here, beneath the earth, with the Count… Abraham sought out other duties he might turn to in order to excuse the abandonment of his present task. But in the end, he forced himself to linger. "Explain this change to me, Slave. That is a direct order."

Dismay, the strongest feeling Abraham had yet seen on the changed Count, was unexpectantly unsatisfying to look upon. No. The slave had no answer. The slave stiffened and his dismay wilted into worry when Abraham stepped towards him, and then crouched. Abraham knew he was absurdly within range of the Count's skeletal arm. But his glower burned into the anxious, tentative expression, as he picked it apart patiently. Abraham's mouth was hard as his endurance was tested. He found it difficult to remain this close to the wretch, immensely difficult to stomach this positioning, given the Count's appearance as he lay on the floor, in his own dried blood… and other fleshy fragments of himself. He, Van Hellsing, bit back feelings of uncertainty and fear, as he looked at the thing that was the Count, but also not the Count. The thing was too altered. "Do you not feel anger anymore?" Abraham asked gruffly, as his patience expired. "Do you not hate? Have you stopped feeling anything, Slave? Explain it to me. What do you mean to tell me by acting this way?"

The red eyes stared. The bloodied lips twitched, but hesitated too long to speak before Abraham's starched voice scraped over him once more.

"Have you so fully accepted your new role, that now you do not care for anything? Nothing at all? Give me an answer, I order you to answer me truthfully, Slave."

The resolute nature of Abraham's hatred worried the slave who lay on the ground, believing he would anger his master if he looked away, although he wanted to do so, wanted to shut his eyes, and perhaps sleep. To sleep away this man and this confusion, and to dull the pain in his hollow chest. The starving eyes glistened in the black hollows of the slave's bloodied face, as the papery lips moved with care. "I accept my position, Master."

As a greater animosity returned to the man, his slave's dismay expanded. Abraham growled, "Do you comprehend what that means, Slave? You. Count… you are no longer the Count. No longer own your name. You can no longer be called by it. I will name you. I will own you. You are in every regard, to be controlled by me. …Do you not know… what to expect, with such a future?" Abraham's jaw clenched and he loathed everything about this hollow, degrading, and disgusting victory.

The slave's glistening eyes wavered over Abraham's hard features, touching them gingerly, as the master felt the lost gaze search him so gently. It was done with such pitiful hesitancy and loss that Abraham stood up and strode to the wall of gloom beside him, scowling furiously into the cloaking darkness. He damned even the stones, blaming them, if nothing else, for this unexpected turn. With a flare of emotion, Abraham's heels dug into the stone floor and he soon loomed over the figure that flinched away in surprise and confusion. He shouted into the small confines of the cell, which lifted the volume of his voice even higher, and emphasized his relinquished control. "You give it up, so easily? So easily, now that you believe I have gained every advantage over you? Is that it!" He hissed so savagely and resented the slave's trepidation so strongly, that he nearly bit his tongue as he roared, "You've lost, Count! Your castle is mine! Your fledglings are dead! Your existence is mute! … I could lock you in here until you crumbled! Are you daring me! Do you want me to exact some punishment? More than withholding food? More than withholding even your coffin… fresh air, and any other element of your body's wants and necessities? –What?" The last Abraham asked as he saw the cracked lips move, and could not tell if they had spoken beneath his ranting temper. "What is it?" he demanded fiercely, ready to throw the skeletal body against the walls and wring out the answers he sought.

"I would…" The slave faltered, trying to swallow, but finding no moisture in his mouth. He sighed as he still felt the word 'coffin' quake in his bones, and his throat was so parched his breath whistled faintly. "I would… very much like something to eat."

With a creased brow and deepened frown, Abraham looked at the creature he had reduced to bones and waste, and had also apparently stripped of its senses. "You… would like something to eat? … To eat?" Abraham tried to reason with the stupidity, and then he stopped, too angry as he dealt with his ever deepening confusion and frustration. "Why should I feed you? … No. I refuse to feed you. Perhaps, I'll go so far as to never feed you."

The worried slave glanced to the side and then blinked up at Abraham doubtfully. The bloodied face was wearing its own frown, but no anger, no command, it did not even bear a complaint. "I am sorry I forgot to address you, Master." As the rasping voice continued, Abraham's scowl opened to another sort of skepticism and amazement. His mouth moved with silent protests, unwanted prayers that came as breaths over his teeth. As the rasping continued, and Abraham pleaded, dear God. Let it end. "Master, may I have something to eat? I will not need a coffin, and you will be spared the trouble of burying me, if only you were to give me a bit of food. I promise, I won't die."

Unable to accept or begin to fathom this strange speech, Abraham left the cell and shut it up with haste. Backing away as soon as he heard the door lock successfully, the metal key, cold and hard against his digging fingertips… Abraham's chest shuddered as though he were panting. He stared at the silver-plated door, eyes wide, bright with torchlight, and disbelieving. Too stunned to accept his own silent suspicions.

Abraham's boots clipped down the corridor as he made his swift departure from the cell, and lengthened the distance until he was returned to the overcast midmorning sky. He stood at the mouth of the entrance to his underworld, the doors wide behind him, Abraham at the bottom of the steps that ascended to level ground. He watched the greys of the sky, steam wafting from his breath, slow to rise above the stairs, and then whipped away by the wind that rustled unseen trees. A dead leaf fluttered past Abraham, and pirouetted through the gaping jaws of his underworld. Abraham followed its passage, and watched it come to rest in the swaying torchlight behind him.

His heartbeat could not calm.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

Abraham left the Count in the underworld for several weeks. Dr. Seward was teaching abroad, so Abraham waited impatiently for his return. The telegram arrived an hour before his old classmate, and though he would have liked for the meeting to have been purely for pleasure, Abraham had contacted Dr. Seward for consultation. Abraham himself could not see past the Count's 'genuine' ignorance, and he doubted whether Seward would come to a different conclusion. However, Abraham could not bear to make any solitary decision of this magnitude. He needed this second opinion.

…

In the underworld, Abraham noticed John Seward tighten the scarf beneath his coat's collar, unable to tighten it further without constricting his own throat. Abraham gave the doctor his pity, and unlocked the door. Then, he paused. Seward examined his face for some detail that would explain this delay, but found nothing. Eventually Abraham pushed the door open, to flood the center of the cell with the light of the corridor.

The bloodied, emaciated form rose out of the shadows as the light clambered over the slave's ribs and boney shoulders, and finally filled the hollowed face. Only the crimson irises allowed the Count to be recognized by the doctor, but it still forced his teeth to gnaw into his lower lip, as Seward's eyes grew round with mixed feelings of hatred, horror, and frightening satisfaction.

Abraham stepped carefully into the cell, as though treading upon a carpet of glass. He followed the wall, keeping an eye on the hollowed slave's face as he took note of Seward, and then looked to his master. Revealing nothing but wide-eyed confusion, devoid of recognition. Filled with too much timidity, too many questions brimming, threatening to spill, but having neither the capacity nor the courage to ask them. The wretched thing on the cell floor no longer had a decipherable voice. Abraham learned this when the slave attempted to dutifully greet his master, after several moments of silence and forgetfulness.

Abraham wondered whether a sip of water would help, or whether the Count could even stomach water. With his plans, he had hoped water would be accepted by the vile body. Abraham's blue gaze clung to Seward, until the doctor finally looked away from the horror on the floor to take notice of him. Abraham explained, "There is a pitcher and a glass of water… the third door on the right, in the direction we came from…" Seward left, wordlessly. And after a time, he returned with both items. He requested Abraham's knife, explaining that the surface of the water had frozen. Afterwards he returned first the knife, which was slipped away, and then Seward handed over the glass of water.

Kneeling before the bloody body, Abraham wished he might simply hand the glass to his slave, but it was clear that the emaciated being was much too weak to manage by himself. And yet, Abraham could not touch the bloodied face, not until it was necessary to keep the face from dropping away from the glass, to keep the water from spilling. Textured with old grime, it was icy, dead, and stiff. Animate rigor mortem, like thick, chilled clay bending slowly beneath his hand. He felt every expression as it formed. Gore that clung to the pale cheeks dampened from what spilt from the corners of the slave's mouth. Abraham winced as the icy water continued to dribble over his fingers, red – like imagined blood. His innards twisted, and his grimace solidified for the duration of the contact, while the water was gulped and spilled in desperate consumption. And all the while, he felt the fangs move beneath the thin layer of cheek. But he bore no anxiety in relation to being bitten. It had been impossible for months, and though some instinctual fear had lingered before, all thought of it had now expired.

Although the slave swallowed the water endlessly, it sliced down his throat like razors. Each gulp was another lance thrust into his gut. It was too cold, cold like himself, but painful. Very painful, and yet he could not stop. Not until the last drop had either been spilt or swallowed. At the end, the crimson eyes were shut tight, and the master could not know why his slave seemed to be wracked with pain. He could only suppose that, perhaps, water was not good for the wretch after all. Abraham stood back with the empty glass, wiping his hand on a cloth he carried with him whenever he ventured into the grimy crypt-like labyrinth, accustomed to blood and dirt soiling his calloused hands. Replacing his gloves, and rubbing warmth back into his fingers, Abraham looked to Seward, who turned away, hiding his expression and his revulsion towards the aid, or mercy, the Count had undeservedly received.

Abraham addressed his slave, and waited for him to look up. The master's expression was cool, his hatred dull, but not sheathed. "Can you speak?"

The slave stared over a crusted hand as he held his mouth. For what reason, Abraham could not begin to ponder. The hand trembled, lowering as the lips moved. "Yes… …Master."

The voice was still weak, but it was intelligible. Abraham sought Seward's attention a second time, but the doctor stared at the slave that had shown such earnest obedience. The doctor breathed, and relaxed his chest. Or made an attempt to. Abraham's pity softened his tone, and he asked the starved carcass on the floor, "Do you know who this is?"

The unknowing stare lingered on Abraham, and eventually shifted to Seward. But soon, the slave was once again looking to Abraham to determine whether this was the "who" he had referred to. And the master nodded, to preserve the silence, to minimize his part in exposing his friend to this… thing. Though… it had become less hellish…

The thin neck was too weak to shake his head, so the slave responded in rasps. "No, Master. I do not." But the looks this received were disheartening: pain in his master's face, something like fury in the face of the dark haired man, with his pointed pale-green glare. Hatred, that he recognized. Yes, that look. Fatigue shook him into the stones, and the slave lay against their rough opposition, an arm trembling as a clot of hair scratched at his brow. "I am sorry, Master. I do not mean to disappoint you. … I— I apologize."

Seward, just like Abraham, could not bear to look upon the Count, thus changed. Seward glowered at the wretch he demonized, as he cursed it and yearned to strike it dead with whatever was at hand. But he marched briskly from the cell, and waited some ways down the hall for Abraham to lock the door. They walked through the arched corridors, trailing echoes through the labyrinth. Unspeaking, until Seward could regain control of his clenched and quivering jaw. Tears of frustration had been reabsorbed during this time, but the anger had not yet returned his face to its normal pallor.

"Abraham… I cannot say… with certainty… I cannot say anything, and be sure of it. But this, this is degrading." He threw a look as Abraham's posture changed, and Seward added for clarity, though retracting a piece of the comment as well, "On his part, mind you. He degrades himself, but I cannot see him doing so, for whatever aim – nothing could warrant this… despicable display. If he only meant to taunt us," Seward gestured to Abraham, the unsteadiness in the arm speaking of the energy he'd suppressed in the cell, "or only meant to trick you… Still, he could not stoop to this- this— ah. It has no honor, no pride. It's not even explained by madness. Not even by a total loss of reason. He was intelligent, but he had always been insane – a madman creature, a demon…" The voice lagged and died gracefully, as the doctor rebuilt the composure his meeting with the Count had broken and strewn about the dungeon floor. He plucked at his scarf as Abraham walked beside him, and their steps resonated in unison. Supporting one another's return to the surface world. Out of the darkness.

The doctor sighed, his mind, his chest, exhausted. He felt sick, but did not show it. "What do you mean to do with him now? When he is like this? Is it better? Will this help you, and make your work easier?"

Seward's questions swelled with hope, and Abraham had to keep his head down to prevent himself from falsely affirming them. "I can't decide. I don't understand what we are dealing with. What… has happened." He held his jaw briefly, before releasing it with a long breath, gazing into the approaching wall. They turned the corner together. "I'm sorry, for having you come to see this. I don't mean to be selfish-"

Seward waved this away, slightly annoyed by the unnecessary apology. "No. None of that. But listen, I have a bit of news for you."

"Good news?" The dimness in Abraham's expression tilted Seward's lips, so that he smiled weakly.

"Well, news may be an exaggeration. I've come to a decision."

"About the Count?"

Seward made a neutral sound that did not disagree with Abraham, but opened his guess to some correction. "The Count, and then you. …I will stay with you. Here."

"No. No, this is absurd. There's no reason, and it's impractical."

"I refuse leave."

Abraham might have chuckled, but the air in the underworld could not support laughter. So he shook his head, and his lips formed a flat smile. "Really? So what about the 'soldiers'? And my staff, you think they're useless enough for you to ignore them? You really think the average man or woman would remain here, for average wages, with what we're proposing to do? With what we have already done?" With the flat smile twitching and a crinkle forming beside his eye, Abraham indicated the space behind him, to remind the doctor of whom they'd just visited. "Half dead. Bound to my will, but not only that. Complicit, to every command I give him. That is your concern?"

Seward eyed his friend for a few steps, then asked plainly, "Have any of your men actually killed one? Have they? No? Well, that sounds dependable, for sure, I should rest easy knowing that-"

A mumbled note of exasperation left Abraham, and he grumbled at Seward's irrational and tedious stance. "They are soldiers. Veterans. They've survived their own encounters. I sought out their advice when we were battling with him-"

As if this was all inconsequential and superfluous fluff, the doctor proceeded, "However, I have– with you. And you, you've killed two-"

"Jack!"

Seward saw that they were coming to the silver plated doors that led to the surface. He sighed, and his features settled back into their habitual unhappy and discontented look. "I won't change my mind."

Abraham lifted the latch, and pushed against the heavy doors. They creaked as a rush of snow flecked air poured through the men. Abraham blinked against cold, "You have your work."

"And I have five able assistants, and only three patients. My assistants have looked after them, without incident, for nearly two months. …" Seward shut one door as Abraham closed the other and locked both. They crushed newly fallen snow, while the doctor regretted not wearing higher boots. "And I overpay them."

"Certainly, those who allow themselves to be overpaid are dependable." Without letting Seward respond to the remark, Abraham sighed, a quickly dissipating cloud leaving his lips, and he adjusted his coat sleeve to better keep out the frigid air. "Well, what say do I have in the matter?" Abraham scanned the white powder, eased by the soft simplicity. His nose and cheeks reddened as he tugged his scarf over his face, and his voice came, slightly muffled. "I'll have a room prepared for you. … As usual, you'll get your way." He did not acknowledge the nod this received, but a crisp smile formed beneath Abraham's scarf, as the two men reached the Hellsing mansion, climbing the steps, and kicking and batting away snow before entering.

The warmth flooded their limbs, leaping at their hands as they shed layers of clothing in addition to their gloves. Abraham's thickly calloused hands were not as sensitive to the cold, so they did not feel as rejuvenated by the heat of his home, but his face gained just as much relief as Seward's. Abraham informed the butler that Dr. Seward would be staying with them for an indefinite period of time, so he would require a heated room. The butler's hand-less right fore-arm motioned to Seward, as he inquired whether the doctor had any specific needs or preferences. Unused to this sort of treatment, Seward waved off the thoughtfulness and reassured the butler that a cot was good enough for him. Seward looked after the butler as the man departed to inform the chamber maid of her new task, and to inform the cook that a special guest would be present.

Then Seward proceeded to follow Abraham into his library.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

Just as he had on his first tour through the Hellsing mansion, Dr. Seward admired the twisting twin staircases that ascended to the second level of Abraham's library. He let his head fall back against his cushioned armchair so that he could admire the expanse of his friend's collection, as well as the ceiling of rich wood, carved, and beautiful. Pale-green irises skated over countless shelves, lingering briefly on any single row. Only a small wing of the library had not yet been filled on the second level, but Seward was sure it would soon be occupied by the soldiers' own possessions. Meant to be a private library, Abraham had opened it to the household. Ten men now served the forming Hellsing Organization, not so much an organization as an army, which had converted the mansion into a base, of sorts. This made for a peculiar master-servant relationship in the household, which Seward had pondered over for some time, in the end having nothing to show for his troubles. He merely accepted the peculiarities as they came to him.

Timothy, the tea boy, was serving them at present, setting a plate of scones at the center of the dark maroon tablecloth. Abraham took control of his coffee, once it was provided, and went about adding cream and excluding the sugar.

Looking into his porcelain teacup, Seward enjoyed the smell and shade of green, just before spooning in a quantity of sugar that caused Abraham to smirk into his steaming coffee. Which ultimately led to thoughtlessness and a scalded tongue.

As he waited for Seward to release the sugar spoon, Abraham made sure Timothy had shut the door properly. Then he began, "How long do you plan to stay here?"

Seward's brow rose at the humor he detected, but he swallowed before lowering his tea. "I'm not sure."

Abraham's expression was calm and hospitable as he laced his fingers in his lap. "So your plan is to retire from your work as a doctor? To settle here, with me? Assuming a radically new, perhaps even more adventurous profession?"

"Perhaps I'll transfer my work here." The doctor challenged, and then rewarded himself by taking another long sip of his sweet tea. But once he'd finished, and lowered his napkin, his demeanor was less carefree. "I'd like to know whether Harker will be told. Given the current situation."

Abraham scowled at the thought, though not angered, simply regretting the subject. "Oh, for the Lord's sake. Let the man alone."

An idle hand turned Seward's tea cup on its saucer, and sharp pale-green eyes glanced at Abraham over the table, before returning to the tea. "Does he not have the right to know?"

There was a frustrated sigh, and Abraham's fingers tapped agitatedly against the tablecloth, "For what reason? And what should I tell him? Do I even know what our current situation is? Or whether or not there is a problem? If this is even a blessing or a misfortune? Jack, Jack-" he shook his head, and then rubbed his brow, an elbow planted on the table. He moved back suddenly, and the agitated fidgets ceased. "What would I say? … That something has gone wrong? Has something gone wrong? Jonathon doesn't want to be included in my work. He wants to live quietly, and recover. I want him to live quietly, and forget all this."

"As though it were something that could be forgotten." Seward added yet another portion of sugar to his tea. The spoon clinked as the sweet concoction continued to swirl. "Well," his tone cleared, showing no evidence of his previous statement, "first you might tell him that the Count has forgotten us. And second, that despite this your 'seal' has proven to be a… well-earned success." When the doctor looked up, his friend had already buried his face in his hand, and slouched into the table. But soon Abraham's fingers were working circles into his temple, incessant as Seward went on, "What else do you know about what's happened? If you'd like, I can be the one to tell him anything unpleasant. I am good with that sort of exchange."

Abraham's hand became a fist. Then it dented his cheek as he examined Seward's composure, his whole expression bland. Rather than attempt discussing Jonathon, Abraham returned to his slave, "He has forgotten you. I have not confirmed whether he recalls nothing of me. Though I believe it's safe to assume. Well..." During the span of quiet, Abraham indicated the scones, but Seward declined. Neither of the men could eat. Abraham appeared to be counting his endless assortment of books as he thought. He diverted the conversation as far as he could from any topic that might lead back to Jonathon. "What disturbed me most… Is something he said, when I mentioned his coffin."

Seward prodded Abraham when he did not continue, to prevent the quiet from settling, "And this was…? What?"

"Essentially, if I gave him something to eat, he would not need a coffin." Abraham found that Seward did not comprehend what this truly meant, and he sighed, sitting up to needlessly rearrange and trouble his silverware. Abraham examined a spoon, as though the answers to all his life's mysteries were reflected in the polished surface. He turned the spoon to keep the reflection in motion as he spoke. "He referred to his coffin, his most precious possession, as a commonplace item… As a mere object. As though its only purpose were to contain him in his final resting place. A regular, typical, unvalued coffin."

"I believe you told me he was upset when he heard of the damage Harker did to the coffin, and then the fledglings… that the two of you took care of." There was a confirming nod. "The coffin preserves him, or sustains him, in some manner. Could it be that he was referring to those properties?"

Abraham shook his head after a moment during which he appeared to be considering the question, though Seward knew that this was not the first time Abraham had confronted this possibility. "He spoke… as though it were a simple object. 'A coffin,' rather than 'my coffin'- You see?" Abraham flicked away his spoon, so it would spin some space over the table. He then retrieved it, to have something to twirl in his hand. "It was the way he spoke of it. How he referred to it. And, well, I don't know how to put it into words. But his tone." Blue stared Seward dead in the eye, and Abraham's resumed fidgeting was seen to be caused by a loss for a suitable explanation. It was an obstacle Abraham could not overcome. "He did not… use a context that was appropriate to himself. That he would starve to death, when he is aware that I know that, without a doubt, this is an impossibility. The Count is not a fool. And he has never treated me like a fool. So there is no reason for the change. But, then again, it was so outrageous I couldn't help but question it."

Seward sipped his tea. After a time, Abraham took a swig of coffee, and then another. And grabbed a scone. To occupy himself.

Seward was cool, a feigned calm that did not hide his irritation very well. "Even if it is an act, what harm can it do us? He, pretending to be an obedient servant. To be ignorant of his… of what troubles he has caused us- I see no point in any of it."

"I agree. There is no point. It brings him nothing – no benefit."

"So? We do nothing different. Or rather, you do nothing different. Carry on with your plans. If the seal has been a success, then the Count is incapable of causing you any further problems."

Mild amusement glinted in Abraham's merry look, which earned a frown in return. "If you are so certain… then why do you find it necessary to guard me, in my own home?"

"Because. I'm not certain."

A chuckle rippled across Abraham's coffee, "And where does that leave us?" He swallowed, humming passively towards his shelves. "It seems we're at the very beginning. Circles. We go in endless, repeating circles. As if we were animals corralled in a pen, or else men carried away on a single train of thought – leading nowhere, and eating away at our time." Abraham looked to Seward, who dropped his gaze. "What do you think?"

Seward blinked stolidly into his tea. "We just need to acquire more information."

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

The buckets of water the Hellsing men threw over him fell like blows from iron clubs that shattered on impact. Unsatisfying though the air might have been, when it was so forcefully knocked from his lungs, he gasped for its return, only to have another bucket of water shatter against his face.

The men were nervous, unused to being so near the slave. But less used to his quiet compliance. Usually the underworld rung with the foreign oaths of their commander and his captive, but this new creature only watched them, with large, yet unintimidating, eyes. A questioning gaze, which made their work bitter.

Once relatively clean, a towel and some clothes were flung over him, so that he might take care of the rest himself, in private, as the men left the cell. When Abraham arrived with Dr. Seward, a damp, sloppy sight greeted them with cold-induced drowsiness and a dejected, "Hello Master."

And they saw the ice that clumped and webbed through the slave's matted hair.

The men looked at one another for mute agreement and consolation. Seward stepped into the corridor, and occupied his time by pacing, listening to his own footsteps rather than to Abraham's work, as the man dealt with the wretch, helping him clothe himself properly. When called for, Seward reentered.

The torches in the cell had been lit by the Hellsing soldiers during their earlier visit, and an additional lantern stood beside the wall. The door was shut, closing the men in the orange tinted, fire-lit chamber. As Seward looked the door over, he cemented the idea of his current isolation, beneath the earth, with only Abraham to accompany him in the… vile presence. Watching the floor, Seward's awareness of the present returned, leaving his thoughts and going to Abraham's activities.

Abraham removed a flask that toughened the doctor's expression. Seward stared as it was uncapped, and then offered to… what sat on the floor.

Some whiff of the substance must have piqued the slave's interest, because pale, bloodless hands took up the flask readily. However, the time that it occupied his mouth was brief. The slave jerked it away, shuddering, working his papery tongue with distaste. Cautiously, he checked his master's response, and held the flask against his chest, unwilling to continue, but loath to put it down, for his own hunger and for the possibility of upsetting his master.

"What bothers you?" Abraham examined the pale face as it turned up to him. The brow, furrowed and doubtful. The slave spoke to the flask he clutched tightly in his hands, sitting upright and much more composed, now that he was dressed and clean. All of these details, Seward noted with unease. The returned strength in the wretched… this hated thing, and his likeness to what occupied the doctor's chilling memories.

The slave faltered, "It- the taste is… very poor."

The slave saw a smile form, the familiar hatred, though it was thinner, more diluted than before. Abraham's expression disturbed him. And the man snorted, "Is that all?"

Red sought out the more neutral face it had become accustomed to. But his master's gloating remained. So he murmured quietly, watching the uneven stones of the floor. "It is difficult to swallow."

"Yes."

"It's cold. And it sits in my stomach like lead, without ending my hunger- it makes it worse. I feel much worse…" But no care was expressed, and the feeble attempt to draw something from the man, died.

"Plain water has helped you before," Abraham was slightly perturbed, though he did not show it.

The slave's attention shifted to the contents of the flask, and nearly all thought of his discomfort was replaced by renewed questioning, of what and why. Without minding his master, the slave poured a small disk of liquid into his cupped pale hand, and then examined the pinkish tint. The remnant of the dye, the smell, something he could detect and feel like heat that his palm told him did not exist… He found his master, and would not stop himself, "What am I drinking?"

"'Master' remember; 'Master,'" Abraham's voice was not as smug or scornful. "I don't want to remind you forever, so learn it and speak properly."

The crimson glint of the slave's strange eyes was less like candlelight against the influence of the surrounding torches and the lantern now held by the "who" his master had spoken of before. But the light of the slave's unnatural eyes melded with the orange flames, brightening, but not glowing. They became more like a ruddy copper or bronze, previously molten, but now cooled. "Master," the pleading note in the voice staggered through Seward, and he could not imagine what the tone did to Abraham, who stiffened, and hardened perceptibly. "It is beyond unpleasant; I am saying it hurts me. The water hurt me before – it did not help. If you give me this because I drank what- that I… I don't want any more of this." The slow runoff from the halting entreaty felt as though it dripped viscously from Abraham's fingers. He rubbed them, though they were shielded by his black gloves. They felt no less naked while the pale expression remained.

"You asked what it was." Abraham's hand clenched gradually, never exhibiting much strength. "So you honestly cannot tell on your own?"

"…No. …. Or, no Master. I cannot… not on my own, no." Some quiet trailed from the slave's voice, a note drawn out beyond the point of human perception.

Seward stepped back until he eased his weight against the wall; then he could watch, could listen. Bewildering, all of it.

Abraham took the flask from a weak hand, and went to the door, Seward following quickly, not to be left alone with the presence.

…

There should have been something comical about leading a goose down the labyrinth, a riding crop aiding Abraham in the task. But the men failed to laugh, as Seward pitied the scrawny animal, the ruffled runt that could best serve his owner in this unpleasant way. It waddled and honked with its white tail wagging. Seward would have liked to pick it up and carry it the rest of the way, but Abraham claimed that the pathetic little bird had a nasty disposition, and bit whomever he liked, without provocation.

This unfairly made the task much easier on Abraham, while Dr. Seward had no such justification of past wrongs to legitimize his participation in the goose's dreadful fate.

Even more comical should have been the pale face's expression, as the slave was finally confronted with the beast he had heard slapping its webbed feet over the stones and honking rebounding notes of muddling noise along the corridors. Owlish red eyes stared at it, not knowing what to think of the goose, and a curious hand reached out, only to flinch away as the bird hissed at him unexpectedly. The patchy goose charged only to stop and hold its ground before the recoiling body. The hissing came and went, until the goose had established the proper pecking order. It then proceeded to paddle about the cell, inspecting this newly gained territory. The men watched the bird and the hesitant slave that stared after it, confounded by its meanness.

When the goose had made his first round through the cell, and arrived again at Abraham's boots, the slave returned his questioning look to the master who showed nothing of his brimming thoughts. The slave held his hands thoughtfully, and divided his attention between his fingers, the unfriendly bird, and his master. "Do we…" he twiddled his fingers around one another, "…or do I, have something to do… well, to do with that? Master?" The last word was whispered with hopeless acceptance and dread.

"Ah," Abraham assessed the angry goose as it lunged and struck at his boot, before passing him with arrogantly swaying tail feathers. "Yes. You can eat it."

The crimson eyes glazed over, and the slack pale features took a moment to reanimate. "As it is? I… am to eat… …" awkwardly he added the necessary 'Master,' tacking it onto the fragments that had been uttered. "But I- I have no desire to eat it. None at all."

The orange beak swung towards the unhappy slave, and the puffing white monstrosity waddled closer to his face. He recoiled as the bird approached, and a boney arm swiped tentatively, to ward it off. The goose hissed with its demonic fowl-teeth, outraged by this insubordination. It snapped viciously at the offending hand, then the arm, and next the whole skeletal body that pushed itself painfully out of reach. The slave winced as he gazed back at the horrid creature, and heard its menacing hisses. "It does not want to be eaten! It's– This won't work, Master. What am I supposed to do with it?"

"You eat it," the master replied with a tone the slave found bizarre and foreign.

"But, that's not, it's not a realistic, it's impossible. –Master, I can't!"

Abraham however was enjoying this to a degree that was dreamlike. He gave Seward a look, as the man leaning against the wall blinked, following the movement intently when the goose pushed the hated presence into the corner, and then paddled jauntily away to sit exactly where the wretched slave had been lying. It was the spot the wretch had occupied since Seward had first seen him in the cell.

Feathers were nibbled at by the orange beak, and the white devil bird made himself comfortable in his new domain.

Seward found Abraham's expression only then, discovering a faint smile that doubted its own validity. Abraham was showing joy, a light emotion that dispelled some of the gloom the underworld contained in both of the men's minds. "I believe everything has worked out to bring us something wonderful. …My shabbiest little goose is enough to keep him in line. So, I suppose I'll be well protected if I let old Snaggletooth board in my room? Perhaps, allow him to sleep under my bed? I'm not sure you're needed after all."

"I think you would lose your toes…" Seward felt the thin smile warp his features, which were more accustomed to misery, as he was unable to retain his dread, his hatred and fear. He admired the misfortune that befell something he resented. Though the totality of this liberation from unpleasant emotions did not persist, as the slave breached the peace.

"Goose? It's a horror." The slave's ivory dagger-like teeth were noticeable to Seward for the first time, and Abraham too was reminded of them. But the glossy glints of impossibly hard enamel were only visible while the pale slave scowled at the bird, sitting uncomfortably upright in the corner, as his whole skeleton quaked with fatigue and bruised his skin as bone pressed against the icy stones. Dark, beady fowl eyes met the crimson glare, and they stared one another down. The slave murmured in a low and hostile tone, "I don't mind eating you. I'll do it, once I know how."

The bird hissed. And the thin face soured, "You're awful… awful. I hate you."

And it was at this point that the goose bit into a bare toe, and shook its head like a mad dog.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

Snaggletooth had won Abraham over, and with Seward's own source of affection, they did not have the heart to kill the devil goose. So it was left to terrorize their wretched captive, who also did not wish to kill the bird, not understanding how or why he should do so. The goose belonged to his master. But Master appeared to be fond of the bird. Then, Master had said to eat the bird. But one could not eat a feathery creature raw. It would be unpleasant. And messy. And any imagined steps towards fulfilling his master's order ended with revulsion, and his master's contradictive disapproval. As well as the green-eyed man's increased hatred.

He wanted none of these, and so permitted the goose to occupy his place in the cell, while he curled up in the corner, which proved to be an improvement. The walls sheltered him, and made him feel safer. And then, the goose wasn't much interested in tormenting him anymore, though at one time his master had returned with the men who had doused the slaves with buckets of cold water. And this seemed to convert him into a factor of entertainment. The sound of laughter was aggressive, alien, and grating in his ears. But the warmth in it, their desire to stand by and watch him rather than throw cold water on him, let the slave accept the laughter.

He still knew nothing of his purpose, or of how he was meant to serve his master. Besides eating the bird, which would rather aggravate than please the man. Compromising his master's contradictive wants, he decided to coax the bird into a less belligerent relationship. He offered a hand, was bitten, and then bitten, and then hissed at and bitten. But over the course of a few hours, the goose grew weary of biting and saw the benefits of using the boney body, or at least its raggedly worn cloths, as a more comfortable nest.

So when Abraham and Seward returned after supper, they found both sleeping, the slave clearly finding the warmth of the feathery creature pleasant, as the feathery creature remained so definitively indifferent towards the slave, that he might have easily been replaced with a mound of unwashed laundry or a stack of hay.

It was time to eat old Snaggletooth.

…

Seward held the muscular neck still, as Abraham compressed the bird's wings and body, tucked under his arm, angling his knife beneath the neck. Soft feathers began to dust the floor as he shaved and pinched away at the neck. Unhappy red eyes watched, having cowered away from protesting after being ordered to keep silent.

The slave murmured softly to the gentle white feathers, as they collected on the floor like ashes. "He is a good goose if you let him have his way."

Abraham concentrated on exposing more of the pink flesh. Not considering why he should justify himself to his slave, the man responded naturally to the cue. "Snaggletooth has had a long life, and he was always meant to be eaten. He just never grew plump enough. He'd much rather play the dog in the manger than find something for himself to eat. Antagonizing the other animals while he remained scrawny." Immediately Abraham dedicated half of his response to Seward, almost denying the fact that the wretch in the corner had gotten any sort of response from him. He saw that Seward was not fully convinced of their excuse for wasting the goose on the distasteful slave.

Abraham was soon satisfied with his work, so, absently brushing white dust from his gloves, he gave one last go at soothing his friend, "Well Jack, would you like to eat this nasty bag of bones?"

There was a frown, but it not was not an angry frown. Blowing off a few lingering feathers and other residue from his knife, Abraham sheathed it and took the goose's head from Seward's grip. Seward returned to his favored wall to resume his observations, while Abraham knelt down and presented the stretched and bared neck to the unhappy slave in the corner.

Crimson glimmered with mild warmth and distress. The slave stared at the bird, "I don't want it."

"You will eat it," Abraham commanded smoothly.

The thin being regarded the neck regretfully, seeing the white and pink -and then his master's hand in the place of Snaggletooth's head. Not a bit of orange devil beak could be seen.

It was quiet as these new turmoils washed over him, swirling eddies flowing through his ribs. "No," the quiet rejection barely passed his lips.

Abraham's face hardened into something the slave found familiar, and the blue eyes calloused against his feeble determination. "Eat it. You will get nothing else. …I need to see whether- No. Just eat it," Abraham shook his head, licking his lips agitatedly and denying the need to explain. When the slave continued to show distaste and pulled away from the hissing bird, Abraham's teeth grated. With the writhing body firmly held, the twitching neck pulsating, he thrust the bird towards his slave, finalizing the command to take it up just as he had been holding it.

In the boney hands, and lying against the boney chest, the bird was held like a foreign instrument. The slave could not begin to guess how it was supposed to be used. He felt the pulsation against his hollow self, and it filled him, satisfied some lonely craving. There emerged a true hunger that preserved a separation between his self and the bird's existence. But, upon his gaze attaching itself unwillingly to the pink flesh, saliva suddenly made itself known behind his cracked lips. An odd sensation, not at all like water. And he breathed, and flesh smelled fulfilling as well. His eyes unfocused and the neck blurred, as he made no attempt to regain himself.

The slave stared fixedly at the neck, until a violent thrashing from Snaggletooth's body reminded him that he did not want to eat the scrawny bird. As the slave stared up at Abraham, the man merely noted that the bird blended into his slave's shirt, and that the pale skinny body filled little of the garment.

"Begin," Abraham ordered, his jaw tight with hatred after having seen the arid lips part to protest yet again. Abraham's voice rose and dipped into a growl, "I order you to begin, now. Bite it."

The weight was mistakenly attributed to the word rather than to the voice, as the slave's vision split, broken shadows of reality overlapping as the weight pressed against his skull, his head sagging. He leaned down, his body bending into the thrashing body he gripped too tightly, unable to feel it. So Snaggletooth was beyond experiencing pain when the unknown fangs passed naturally into the flesh, but immediately felt misused, somehow disoriented; deceived, his emptiness writhed as if resenting him for following the man's order. And for disregarding the order of his nature.

The teeth did not allow much blood to leave the neck, so only a taste reached the slave, not the texture of the substance. And he pulled away from the dead bird, blood oozing to show its color, but not spilling. Since there was no heart to beat against its stillness. The crimson eyes, bright and yielding, questioned the man who watched him. Abraham examined the face unconsciously, a nausea flooding his gut before he had recognized more than the red tint at the lips and the general paleness of the face and blur of eyes. He turned away without meaning to, and mindlessly retreated to the wall, drawn to Seward as thoughts caroused in his trembling mind.

Having seen nothing of the slave's state from his post at the wall, Seward did not know what had caused Abraham to grow pale. Abraham's sudden real weakness and impending faintness alarmed the doctor as he pushed off the wall and supported his friend. Wild panicked assumptions and possibilities fueled by ignorance and fear throttled Seward's temper and terrified him all at once. His voice was too loud, yelling at Abraham's drooping head. But the recovery was immediate, regaining some stability, though the nausea, the sickness and the paleness and a slight weakness in his knees persisted. A black gloved hand clapped heavily onto Seward's shoulder, and as Abraham became more balanced, he patted his loyal friend, speaking quietly of some odd reaction to the blood, having witnessed the bite… Abraham did not know what he said as these words spilled with his foamy thoughts.

They were given a period of quiet in which to dwell on their own problems, but a wrenching tone turned them forcibly to the pale being that held the dead crushed thing against himself, greyed-black matted hair obscuring much of the hollowed face, and yet Seward too saw the expression that drained his body of composure, and plucked at his moral strings.

"What… what was the reason for this? Why was I made to, to do this, f-for you? I- i-it does nothing. Nothing? Does it do nothing?" The expression was directly exposed to Abraham, whose grip tightened on Seward, sending a startled jolt through the doctor. "What did this… do, for you? What good… was there… i-in this? What?"

The starved wretch bent into the soft deadness of the bird, burying his face into the feathers, oblivious to the bare patches and natural ugliness of the animal. Blood dyed the white feathers as viscous crimson tears leaked quietly into the limp body. Fearful of such a useless, purposeless fate, to be of such minor worth, and so easily extinguished. Overwhelmed with hunger, confusion, loneliness and regret. The slave was charred by the bonds that had formed without his knowledge, nor his consent.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

Needless evil, the men felt they had committed some sin against the horrid demon bird. It initially was only a feeling, a mere doubt, but with time some confusion of morals beat against them like a violent gale storming into a ship's mast. What wrong, what had been committed, was uncertain. But an ethical discomfort had been bred with preexisting moral qualms tied to the wretched slave's ignorance and unknown change. Beyond thoughts of experimentation and gaining knowledge, they could not determine how to act, how to carry the weight that was suddenly dropped into their arms. They staggered through their days, carrying this moral carcass.

It had no life, no rights. It deserved to be burned, this carcass. But intuition tugged the men in other directions. Abraham discussed the situation, presented it anew to the men in his service, then to the butler; he and the butler brought the matter to the housekeeper, and all three brought it to the notice of the other household staff. Oddities rolled through this conundrum, but beating steadily within it was a responsibility to personal integrity, however demented and warped by the fiercely contradicting inclinations, sensations, and emotions.

It was difficult to determine where to place him. In a room? In some other portion of the underworld? But any portion of the underworld was uninhabitable, every stone possessed only cold cruelty. Abraham turned the matter over with Dr. Seward in his library. They, alone, with the walls of books, spoke in broken bouts of reasoning, then emotion, always debating. No tempers were truly tested, but logic fumbled between the men, and they often could not tell whether it had been dropped from their arguments entirely.

Abraham grasped his lukewarm coffee as though the air were frigid. "We cannot allow him to room alone, that is, to be alone. He cannot be without supervision. That would be inexcusable."

"Too dangerous." Dr. Seward slipped a tea spoon, brimming with sugar, directly into his mouth. He kept it there, thoughtful, his chair crooked and directed partially towards the shelves. He withdrew the spoon, empty and clean, then held it in his hand as his arm settled on the chair. "Everything seems too dangerous, too mad, too unreasonable. And what to do about it…"

"Throw up our hands in defeat?" the humor in Abraham's tone did not escape Seward, and the doctor looked for any sign of seriousness in the proposal.

"And what would defeat translate to?"

Abraham put the coffee on the table, stirring sugar into it out of a strange whim. And then he watched the liquid carry on in its dying whirl. "We have no defeat. There is nothing to fall back to, because keeping him permanently in that cell is… it can't be done. Not at present, at least not now."

"And so we place him in your home." Seward brought his tea cup to his lips, and then murmured over the green sugary fluid, "Remarkable."

This caused Abraham to shift uncomfortably in his chair. He took a swig of his coffee, and pondered the sweetness without true thought. "I have nothing. Everything seems… outrageous. The more I consider it, the more hopeless it all seems to be."

"I'm beginning to think putting him in a room on the fourth floor, near ours – yes," Seward nodded curtly to a look this inspired from Abraham, and his fingers fidgeted and then flexed against porcelain. "The household lives on the first floor, mainly. The men have rooms on the third, or second?"

"Third, mostly. Or… no, there aren't many. Brigham is on the second, with the male staff. The female staff are on the first floor, only."

"So, our floor. Really a whole floor to ourselves? Your house is too large-"

Abraham chuckled, drank more of his sweetened coffee, and then let his body relax in his chair, eyes shutting. He took a satisfying breath, and let it out slowly. "Our floor, well that's much better. We alone will need to keep him company." John winced into his tea, while Abraham continued, "And… and what else? Your room is not exactly close to mine. And an 'inbetween room', what possibility is there for locking him in an adequate room? I see no harm there, what problem could there be?"

Asking this, Abraham sat up and glanced at the doctor, who avoided him, sipping at his tea and watching the books as though they were acting out some tormented Greek tragedy. "Mhm, yes, what problems… Let me see," Seward pretended to ponder. "He would be somewhere near both of us, awake and as lively as he can be, while the two of us are sleeping. Yes, I adore that, Abraham. I adore it."

"Then we'll have him in my room." As the doctor sputtered and spilled his tea, quite indecorously, Abraham's amusement warmed the library, though a fire crackled calmly at their backs, and cast their bulky chimerical shadows over the shelves. "I like it now. I hesitated before," Abraham's smile jutted into Seward's creasing brow and hardening rejection. "But I think it will prove something else, take the opportunity to show against any doubt that I am confident in my success. See Jack, our problem is his change. He is no longer the- what he was… Now with what we've been given, he's a bundle of clumsy ill-fitting ignorance."

"But do we know how long it will last?" Dr. Seward's eyes narrowed, frowning more coldly at the damp tea stains on his dark vest. "What if something changes tomorrow? Or the day after?"

Abraham dipped a finger into his coffee, and brought it to his mouth for a moment. Before laughing warmly, despite himself.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

Regarding the matter of making the slave decent for the eyes of the household staff, Abraham excluded Dr. Seward entirely. His colleagues, or 'soldiers,' as well as his butler, had offered to make their own contributions. Abraham selected four of the ten men, and included Brigham in addition to himself. They were the biggest, healthiest, or youngest of the group, and so had more to spare.

The skeleton of a being had to be fleshed out before he could be resurrected from the labyrinthine underworld of the Hellsing estate. The men drew their blood and collected it in a ghastly metal pitcher. 'Ghastly' due to its adulterated use, the drink that it contained. But at least the gathered blood could not be seen, unless one peered directly into the pitcher and sloshed its gory contents. Having a handle to hold onto, Abraham did not need to feel the fading body heat as he strode down the arched corridor with the footsteps of his men before and behind him.

Someone opened the door for him. Abraham did not see who the man was. He focused on the darkness the band of men quickly fought back into the crevices with lanterns held before them. The company worked in swift silence, surrounding the body on the floor; their stony faces viewed the distraught yet starving slave, who was overwhelmed by the marvelous scent he did not understand. But needed. Desperately, needed.

Would have at any cost.

The thought passed out of being quickly, shuddered at by other thoughts and protective feelings, his sense of duty, tied to his Master. It passed away smoothly, because the wonderful Master gave him the source of the glorious fragrance immediately.

Melting over his parched tongue, the liquid swelled as though it breathed, like a slowing heart; it filled his mouth and much, much more. The starving slave drank it with mindless fervor, gulping yet spilling nothing, beyond logic; he retained every drop. Men had turned aside, hardened against the swallowing, the sounds of enjoyment they could not prevent their minds from harboring afterwards. The sound alone stayed with them, while Abraham invited the memory of the event, the alteration of dead flesh, steam rising from the skin, wisps that must have been water, heated – but how? What source of energy initiated the transformation? As the wretchedness lessened and the wholesome look of a maintained being emerged. The thinness was conserved, a necessity, Abraham had decided. And he saw the thinness without its previous gauntness when the pitcher was lowered. A cold tongue traced the smoothed pale lips, after having done the same to the pitcher.

The bright candlelight eyes shone brilliantly against the mild glow from the lanterns, while a rejoicing, praise-filled smile was presented to the Master, as though some blessing had been bestowed upon the slave and the man's greatness had only know been fully realized.

The questions came against Abraham's steeled nerves; the man wanted to staunch them, to cut out the voice, but there was something natural to the response which could not be punished. However, the disturbance was felt keenly by the men, who reacted in their own private ways.

"What was this?" The slave lifted the empty pitcher, as though it might be transmuted from an earthly wafer form, to the holy body of Christ. Thoughts swarmed, as if some hive had been disturbed, kicked viciously into mildly directed chaos by the abrupt gift. These virulent thoughts that warred against one another remained unknown to him, though they were felt as a whole. They left no taint, no corruption. His emotions drove him on as though with wide, open child-eyes, arms outstretched like hopeful wings, seeking the source or reason for pleasure without cultivating some lustful, covetous scheme to attain more. Or so, the plainness of the natural response seemed to suggest.

He felt that he must explain the reason for his excitement, to encourage an explanation in turn. He must have his master understand that this was momentous and could not remain a mystery. The warm drink, which had given some sense of substance to the fluttering nothingness, thickening the thin expanse of darkness; something miraculous was contained in it. A soup, heating his insides, thrilling his spirits, something he had never before conceived. Hopeful inclinations to believe in change and in what he understood had to exist outside of his cell, and in the ability to engage the man, were born. Strength, rejuvenation, spilled past his lips. "It- it… Master. I- I can't tell you, how much this has helped me. How much I have needed exactly this. –What was it? There was so much, and it did so much more than what was in the flask. Did I-" The slave was about to ask, 'Did I do something well?' but he recalled what that potential something had been. He quieted, the chaos receding like an emptied wave, the last on what became a settled plain of water. Pensive, his thoughts were shallow, having little to gather in his head; the plain, too thin, only wet his fingers, his palms, and trickled back into the expanse they had come from. He could not cup any mass of consciousness in his hands. All he could ultimately come to was, "Thank you, Master."

And yet, from the altered postures and arrhythmic pulses, it seemed that, once again, he had committed come wrong. Silence seemed best, to keep silent always. But silence had also caused his master's voice to grow the loudest. Nothing seemed to fit properly, anywhere.

In the quiet, the master came to him and took the empty pitcher away. The men departed, and as always, the slave was entombed in darkness that evaporated the membrane separating his body from the void. The void was the negated space he naturally became, when isolated from an 'other,' any distinguishable existence that might reflect and prove his own. So he became the stones, as he was accustomed to. And he became the air, but he had not fully dissipated when a border stopped him. As the internal heat spread to his extremities, the candle-eyes ignited in the cell… The stones were perceptively cooler than his fingers. The air was too light to be him, too cold, and now, so different. With warmth, his skin was mended, and he did not dissolve as completely into the void. Some part was set aside, sectioned off, something that could be him.

*~*~::..+..::~*~*

They smuggled the slave in like a banished heir, entering the mansion in the dark hours of near-morning when the household staff were asleep. The staff would wake soon, while the men retired to their rooms, so Abraham would not be wholly isolated. Two men in addition to Brigham accompanied Abraham. The butler led the three able bodies that carried the slave, contained in a coffin that had been made the day before. The coffin Master had spoken of was mistaken for this crate-like vessel. And it disturbed him. With the wood bare beneath him, it was uncomfortable, this death, with the sensation of floating down the River Styx. Not as a soul, but rather as cargo, or even debris.

The greyish wood was not heavy between the men, and they silently stole up the steps, through the halls, onwards to the fourth floor of the Hellsing mansion. Climbing these final stairs, the secrecy in the act became all the more apparent to Abraham. His head hung subtly as they carried the coffin over the endless rug, which flowed beneath the casket's shadow but could not reach far enough to soften their tread. Despite the occasional creaking of floorboards and the footsteps they could not mute, Dr. Seward slept ignorant of the shadowy deed. And the candle-fire eyes roamed the gloomy interior of the casket, the walls, the breaks that bled the light of the hallway. Hearing the echoes in the contained space, and the amplified sounds of the men shifting their grips, adjusting in some manner; the slave was quiet but open-eyed.

The butler opened the door, and then placed his hand in his pocket, remaining patient, but grim. The men walked through the shadowed interior of the bedroom, the light of the moon and the glow of the wintry world outside illuminated what it might through Hellsing's large uncovered windows. In a scale of greys and bluish tints, they navigated around the arm chairs, past lamp tables, to reach the writing desk. They placed the coffin in this corner, the darkest in the room as the desk cut off the glow from the windows. Bordered also by bookshelves, as if providing two fortress walls, and the desk acting as a minor third, this was the best their nerves could cope with, to allow the men to bid their commander goodnight, look back more times than needed, and for Brigham to take the silver key from his pocket, examine it quietly as a man with more arms shut Abraham in deeper gloom, shut him away from themselves in a room containing that dreadful coffin. And the butler inserted the key.

Abraham heard the door lock. His adjusting vision flowed towards the darkest corner, where the coffin had liquefied into the shadows. With the darkness there seemed to emanate from the floor, a moor-ish mist, a chill that trickled over his shoes, that clouded his legs, roughened his body, and tightened his nerves.

A mere shift of weight from the slave in the coffin shot through Abraham's nerves like gunfire. His breath had ended, his lungs refusing to move, in order to erase his presence in the darkness. He heard the loud hammer of his heart, like an angry fist against his ribcage. It echoed in his brain. Demanding he return to himself, that he take charge of the slave he must forever lord over.

And Abraham obeyed this, as the clunking and sliding of wood told him the slave had opened the casket. The man imagined his slave sitting in the darkness, observing him, while he could not do the same in return. Instantly, Abraham went to his lamp and brought light into the room, so he might turn back on the slave and see his motives.

Pale hands shielded an obscured face. They covered the stinging crimson eyes, as the slave bit back his pained hiss and rubbed at them uselessly. He was sitting in the coffin, as Abraham had imagined, but as it was on the floor, the coffin converted the slave into an odd wayward traveler, the shape of the wood being canoe-like. The pale wretch resembled a lost voyager, who had just arrived in a place wholly unintended. And holding his head was his means of showing regret, perhaps.

Passing these images aside, the master stood solidly, boots planted in the rug as he observed movement in the back corner. The tangled mats were gone, but the slave's hair remained wiry, not at all smooth. It was lackluster, yet as deep as darkness as it struggled to fall over the thin shoulders and reach down the back of the wrinkled and grime-marked shirt. The hair could barely graze the slave's shoulder blades. It remained much shorter than the Count's.

Abraham's expression became as tough as newly tanned leather. He did not know what he was waiting for until the pale face came into view. And grime stained hands rested on the sides of the coffin. The crimson eyes could not glow all that strongly in this light. Abraham stood beside his bed, ready to take command.

But immediately, the slave's eyes were loose, roaming the interior of Abraham's bedroom, scrambling over the shelves, leaping from chair to chair, and skating quickly over the table to round all the way back to the writing desk that kept the slave's shoulder partially shaded. This he looked at the longest, discerning what it might be from his epistemologically deprived view of it. He assumed it was a desk or form of shelf…

He felt his master, heard the breath that inspired twinges of jealousy, and once more found the man in the room. And at this moment, Abraham approached him.

…

The master merely gazed down upon the strange composition of his room, the unnatural addition, the coffin, and then the slave. An obedient slave. A disobedient slave was not a slave, but a captive. And this was no longer his captive. The circumstances that led up to this arrangement flushed through Abraham's mortal limbs, alienating them as the unreality was sustained. This was not in his mind, this was not a conjuring, this was in fact something he had, alone, by his own power and command… done to himself. Locked in his bedroom, with the Count. But not the Count, it was the slave, and nothing more.

The altered appearance of the wretch, the thinness, the shortened hair, aided Abraham in coming to terms with his hesitation, so that he might proceed. Meanwhile, the crimson orbs burned steadily in the shadow of the writing desk. Cool flame, still heatless. But they were as intelligent and alert as Abraham remembered.

"You will stay in the coffin tonight. And I'll let you out when you're needed."

The slave did not seem to like this order, features shifting uneasily, as he dropped his gaze and softly tapped on the side of the coffin with a greyed finger. "Am I… going to be buried?" His master's face showed a fleeting expression that slipped through the slave's fingers, before the face hardened into an artificial sternness. Dryly Abraham replied in the negative. The slave stroked the side of the coffin, quiet, yet thankful when the master did not leave him or order him to shut himself away. But there could only be so much time that his master was willing to give him.

The slave gripped both sides of the coffin, staring down at the end, where his feet did not quite touch the base. His grime crusted feet, his nearly black toes. Filthy. He could not, reasonably, leave the coffin. His filthiness would ruin his master's floor. And as this consideration passed through him, the slave scanned the floor of the room, the rugs and dark wood, the feet of the furniture, chairs and tables.

Abraham assumed that he had been forgotten, that this inattention was due to his slave's current impairment, so he saw no need to remain at hand. Abraham turned and regained the slave's attention when he told him to shut the lid and remain where he was. Abraham was reaching for the light, when he paused for a question he had not been expecting.

"Will you be sleeping now?"

A narrowed stare found the occupied casket, and remained on the ignorant expression his slave showed. Slowly, Abraham touched his night stand, and considered leaving the light on for the night. "Yes," he murmured, seeking out the slave's objectives. "I will be going to bed."

"I'm not tired, somehow. I won't be able to sleep for some time," the red eyes were roaming for a clock, finally picking one out on his master's mantel. "It's almost morning, there's no use sleeping."

Exhausted, the man scowled at his bed covers, longing to fall into them. "Close your coffin and then close your eyes. That's what I'm asking you to do. It's very simple."

And with this he heard the scraping of wood and watched as his slave disappeared into the casket. Abraham could not muster the resolve to call for someone to see to his dark fireplace, so he rummaged in drawers, until only the writing desk stood unsearched.

The lid rose silently, and the slave observed the elongated view of his master at the desk, the man ignoring him, intent on something. But the master left as soon as he found what he wanted. The slave continued to watch, curious, and sat up to see why his master had crouched beneath the mantel, and what he was doing to make the noises the slave heard. Wood blocks were arranged, the hearth already swept clean hours before. Abraham lit a paper, which illuminated a new portion of the room, and it glowed and waved orange light that flared over his body. Inserting the lit paper between the wooden blocks, Abraham remained on a knee, his newspaper in his hand, as he gradually inserted additional pieces of paper until the fire had settled snuggly into the wood.

When the man stood, he found the interested gaze, which, after a prolonged exchange of stares, knew that it needed to retreat into the confines of the coffin, so that the master might have his privacy.

So the slave settled into the coffin, and shut himself in darkness.